This morning’s eight mile run ultimately terminated unorthodoxically. Undoubtedly driving to the grocer for fresh asparagus would have been far more jejune. Sadly, with soundness of mind is not the way this train rolls. Let it be said that on the occasions the backyard hens wrest me from slumber at 5am, reasonable judgment is unapologetically truant. The devil is in the details and today’s lucifer was lugging 2 pounds of the green stuff 4 solid miles on a return trip home. Goofy as this expedition seems, it could have been far more fatuous. Roughly one mile after purchasing the asparagus, I nearly punted on my fresh veggie project. As I began to seriously question the sweaty sanity of the now-slippery cellophane bag ungainly stroking my forearm, the situation nearly became dire. For the sake of propriety, I nearly ducked into a back alley and consumed all 32 oz of my freight. At the last minute, my mind flashed to a time when I actually witnessed someone trying to accomplish such a Herculean feat. (Yeah, I’m looking at you Chili Jr. Thank goodness your uncle wasn’t squeamish and rescued you from a Sisyphean asparagus fate). Surviving temptation, I trudged on, slightly bruised asparagus in tow. All was well until 2 miles from home. Two words- Donut Shop. Nothing is better than a bag of donuts. Nothing. I had cash. I had a craving. I had one free hand (yep, the other toted the now-perspiring green asparagus.) Much to my chagrin, sagacity elbowed its way back into my frontal lobe. Calmly realizing that I already looked like a total goon while toting a bulging bag of asparagus, I calculated that doubling down and additionally hauling a bag of donuts would very comfortably place me in the category of derelict. No sale. Shit! I needed the donuts to balance whatever stupid nutrition the lame-ass asparagus would soon offer. I drew several labored breaths. I chugged on. I made it home and made a chili marinade.